


Some Work for Immortality

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunken sex, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fighting, Humor, M/M, Public Sex, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-08
Updated: 2008-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was something of a PWP until Emily Dickinson insinuated herself into it.  Yet another interpretation of the Arrangement.  And a bookstore.  I'm not good at summaries. :P</p>
    </blockquote>





	Some Work for Immortality

**Author's Note:**

> This was something of a PWP until Emily Dickinson insinuated herself into it. Yet another interpretation of the Arrangement. And a bookstore. I'm not good at summaries. :P

**Title:** Some Work for Immortality  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Author's Notes:** This was something of a PWP until Emily Dickinson insinuated herself into it. Yet another interpretation of the Arrangement. And a bookstore. I'm not good at summaries. :P

 

 

Crowley had read things about immortality, or the human speculation on it, anyway. Humans had turned it bad with their sleek power-hungry supervillains. Then again they indulged in their guilty lust for everlasting life when they accepted Jesus into their hearts, or however they described it these days. But they had painted the genuine, flesh and blood kind of immortality as unbearable, as anybody would do when they couldn't have a thing for themselves. Sometimes the world _was_ unbearable, but Crowley had never seriously thought life was. It wasn't life's fault shit happened. For a demon, he really did have a lot of faith, but it was probably faith in himself more than anything. Immortality wasn't something special to him, it was just the way things were.

And then there was time itself. Humans revered history in a way he simply could not. The average person thought of singular political events when they considered the past, but Crowley remembered smells and fashions and food. Yeah, it sounded a little petty, but he only remembered how it was, what was accepted as quality of life from one century to the next. The lifestyles and little everyday things. Occasionally he'd catch a scent—easy for a man-shaped being of serpentine descent—that would take him back completely to another time or place. No, living forever wasn't dismal or maddening, it was just watching every facet of the world update, and finding flashbacks in the weirdest places.

Crowley was having one of those days that felt unreal. The sensation that he was looking out of himself and observing everything differently . . .

"You're being awfully quiet."

Crowley jerked out of his trance enough to stare at something other than the light dancing on his wine glass. "Yeah," he said unthinkingly. "Hey, do you remember when candles were all lumpy and uneven and not red and green with, what are those, little wax holly berries and leaves and shit?"

"Why yes, Crowley, I _do_ remember the six-thousand years prior to the last hundred, even in my old age," the angel said sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I dunno, I think I'm starting to get bored of all this luxury. No—it's more like I miss the old kind of luxury."

"The kind with grapes and slaves to fan you, that sort of thing?"

"Yeah. I was thinking more the last century though."

"You're just afraid you missed out on something exciting. Trust me, there wasn't much. It was a very grey century, I would have to say."

"Yeah." Crowley picked at his food. A demon never really got physically hungry, per se, but he had developed cravings over the years. A live pianist stole his attention. "I hate to be getting so sentimental on you tonight, Aziraphale, but I really fucking love the sound of the piano. Something about it just bites and melts away like, like everything does, I don't know."

"You're drunk. But I do agree that it describes human fragility rather well."

Crowely snorted. And really, who snorted and could pull it off as casual but Crowley? "'Describes fragility.' Angel, who fucking says that?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Me." He was watching Crowley with such a soft expression lately. Oh well.

There was absolutely nothing that allowed their companionship to be so easy and comfortable this particular evening, unless it was tiredness of living. Sometimes a demon was just tired, immortal or not.

They were both quiet. Crowley listened to the Schubert slipping in around them and thought about how quickly people used to die. His fears were so different from humans'.

Aziraphale touched his arm on the table. "Let's go."

 

 

*

 

 

It had taken thousands of years for them to be trusting enough to get fabulously drunk together. And while in ancient Rome, Crowley and Aziraphale made a habit of meeting at one or the other's current house to drink and discuss politics—naturally you couldn't have one without the other.

"It's terrible what they're doing," Aziraphale kept saying. "Simply terrible, I really can't believe this."

"Aw shut up, they're always doing—doing terrible. Things. Seriously, you need to shut up about it angel s'not like it's gonna change, ya know . . ."

"It's my _job_ to make it change, Crowely," Aziraphale said emphatically, grabbing at the demon's shoulders. "I'm _supposed_ to fix the lions and tigers and bears."

"Oh sweet Hannibal, who gives a fuck, you don't really care, aw come on, angel, just stop talking," Crowley mumbled, mesmerized by Aziraphale's lips moving, who knew why.

"I can't even see you," Aziraphale complained, and sort of mushed his hand around Crowley's face until his dark glasses fell off.

"Hey I need those," Crowely said to himself, trying to adjust his vision in the bright candlelight. He thought Aziraphale looked like a fucking golden statue in candlelight.

"Angel, ya look like a fuckin' gold statue right now, okay?"

Aziraphale's expression was comically confused. "Okay," he said, licking his lips.

"Stop doing that," Crowley whined, pushing at him.

"Oh yeah? Oh _yeah_? Well, well, you look like you look, except without your glasseses."

Crowley burst into laughter. "Aziraphale you are drunk!" he shouted.

Aziraphale giggled and licked his lips. "I know! I know! But you look so good I just can't help it." He seemed to find this statement completely hilarious and couldn't stop laughing, falling into Crowley. "Ohh, you feel good too . . ."

"Thaaaaaanksss. Stop doing that. Stop moving around and convulsin'licking your lips and stop bein' a statue, dammit." Crowley tried to position the angel better but was fighting a losing battle that was squirming with drunken laughter. He opted to just push Aziraphale until he fell over. "It worked!" he announced to nobody in particular.

Aziraphale was still suffering from some residual giggles but he stared steadily up at Crowley, like a predator stalking, gazing intently at him. Crowley laughed at the angel with that look on his face. "Ya look like a bloody snake," he started to say but his words were stolen when Aziraphale lurched upright, making Crowley dizzy just seeing him suddenly so close, and pulled on Crowley's upper class tunic and kissed his lips. Crowley kissed back forever, sure he was burning and melting everywhere, instantly weak and instantly aroused by a single kiss. He had never reacted to humans like this.

"Ah," Aziraphale kept saying whenever the kiss pulled back slightly. "Crowley, oh my G—"

Crowley grabbed at Aziraphale's draping clothes, ran hands eagerly up his arms and back and dug long fingers into his hair, unable to express how he felt from merely kissing him, wanting to explain in bites and caresses. He licked and sucked at the angel's neck, gold in the candlelight and lovely.

"Crowley, ah—oh. Oh we should, I don't know—"

"Yeah, we should, um, here— _ah yess_ . . . " Crowley toppled him over and found every inch of contact, even through togas and tunics and skin, addicting. He kissed him and kissed him and couldn't believe how awake his whole being was.

 

The next time they met Crowley tried very hard to be nonchalant when he asked Aziraphale to come in for a drink. The angel gave him a soft look but said _Yes_ equally nonchalantly.

Over the years it became an unspoken code between them, a wonderful excuse to forget themselves. There were just too many questions to address if it wasn't alcohol that inspired them to be all over each other.

 

The usual formalities were not exchanged when Crowley let himself into Aziraphale's modest house in Constantinople. In fact what he did was burst in through a bolted door and make his way to the angel engrossed in Bibles and bathed in the dim, gorgeous light of a single imperfect candle. Aziraphale looked up, pale curls in his eyes. "What? What is it, Crowley?"

Crowley suddenly lost his momentum. "Um." It was stupid, so stupid, but since that time last time, in the gorgeous imperial gardens, quietly and wildly, he seemed unable to kick Aziraphale out of his head. He wasn't a fucking teenager—he wasn't fucking _human_ , but he wanted Aziraphale, couldn't get enough of him, wanted to drive him crazy with pleasure. It was so gratifying to get the better of the angel for once, force him to lose his perfect control of morality and immortality. True, it had been the first time they'd been able to, er, see one another in awhile, but that was no excuse for the demon's insides to ache like this. The last thousand years had made everything seem so important . . .

"I think we should stop drinking together," he said on an impulse that made him cringe. Whatever had happened to his plan of grabbing the angel and holding him against the next available wall and making him gasp and plead? The look on Aziraphale's face made him strongly reconsider it. Crowley wanted it without their games and trade offs justifying it, but that was exactly why he had said what he had said. He could tell the angel wanted to ask why, but Crowley couldn't, _could not_ answer that.

"You're right," Aziraphale said, hiding everything on his face quickly and efficiently.

"In fact, I think we should draw up some ground rules about our professional relationship," he heard himself saying.

"A more concrete sort of arrangement?"

"Yeah."

 

 

*

 

 

"It's freezing," Crowley said presently. "Freezing!"

Aziraphale pointed at a snowbank.

"You have your bloody aura to warm you up, I'm evil and—stuff."

"I was under the impression it was on the warm side Downstairs."

"I'm cold-blooded!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "No you aren't." He watched Crowley shiver in his impractical leather coat in the soft silent cold. "Why don't you sober up, my dear?"

Crowley looked at the angel for a long moment. His face was so expressive; it gave everything away when he didn't pay it enough attention. Aziraphale thought that was the real reason behind wearing those glasses.

"Fine," Crowley mumbled and twitched his hand and shook himself. "Happy?"

"Yes, thank you. I barely trust you behind the wheel as it is let alone inebriated."

They slopped through the grey sludge on the street to get to the Bentley. Sticking snowflakes dampened Aziraphale's good suede gloves when he opened the car door, surprised it opened at all in the cold and equally surprised when he discovered the Bentley's interior was hot as a furnace. He shot Crowley a disapproving look.

"My car, angel," the demon cheerily pointed out.

"At least try to put on something nice to listen to, then."

Crowley sighed. "Yeah, I do try, you know," he said glumly. He snapped and a pile of cassettes landed in Aziraphale's lap. "Go for it, maybe you will persuade them to behave with your inordinate virtue."

"Hm." Aziraphale shuffled through the tapes, and, not recognizing any of the titles, chose _A Night at the Opera_ at random and shoved it into the player, hoping for the best.

 _Una furtiva lagrima_ , Caruso lamented through crackling white noise.

Crowley took his eyes off the road to gape at him—in fact he turned his whole body and missed a red light to do so. "How in the name of all that is Manchester did you do that?"

Aziraphale smiled, pleased and superior. "Perhaps if you treated your car with more respect."

Crowley shook his head and turned his attention back to driving, trying to hide his smile. His face reached for the glow of orange streetlights and it reminded Aziraphale of dark 17th century taverns.

"Where am I driving you anyway, Aziraphale?"

"Home of course."

"You know, you've lived in enough places over the years," Crowley mused, "but you haven't really moved anywhere new since, oh, the 11th century. I, on the other hand, have always made sure to be living where the action is. But no matter how far away that happened to be you've always made me trudge through the shit of Europe to your 'home'."

". . . I'm sorry?"

Crowley was staring at the road ahead as he spoke, something he could never be counted on to actually do. "Wanna come back to my place?"

"You just sobered up," was all Aziraphale said.

"Is that a yes?"

 _What more searching need I do? She loves me, that I see_. It was Italian but they both understood.

"Oh, come on," Crowley wheedled, convincingly enough, "we can watch whatever you want on TV."

"Well . . ."

There was a pause. "Do you remember when I lived in China?"

"Which time?"

"The first time. I didn't even hide my eyes. They thought I was holy!" he laughed.

"Crowley, you still sound moderately drunk to me."

"I'm really not. Promise. But I'm sure you remember."

Crowley knew quite well that Aziraphale couldn't possibly have forgotten his eyes. Dark gold irises circled with orange and streaked with reds and yellows. Eyes that, when they opened slowly in the morning, were like the sun rising. And stark black slit pupils burning in their own right like hate. Seeing those eyes in Crowley's human face without their familiar screens to the world never failed to disarm him. In China the angel was sure Crowley wore the most brilliant reds and golds possible when he visited.

" _Some work for immortality, the chiefer part, for time, he compensates immediately, the former checks on fame_ ," Aziraphale quoted. His mind had gone blank. He rarely saw Crowley without his sunglasses anymore.

"That wouldn't happen to be our old friend Emily would it?"

"Oh, we only met her once. That poor girl," he added regretfully.

"She got around," Crowley shrugged, rounding a corner—no, definitely 90o angling a corner.

Aziraphale clutched at his seat. "Do you even consider that there are _other people driving_?"

Crowley dismissed them with a wave. "Please. I can see them coming—demon," he said by way of explanation, tapped his sunglasses.

"I think I liked it better when technology didn’t put you in control. And by 'you' I mean _you_ , Crowley."

Crowley laughed. "I know for a fact how much you hated horses and ships for themselves, never mind how bloody slow they were."

"Do you remember the first time we went to the Colonies?"

Crowley glanced sidelong at him. Aziraphale could feel it. "Yeah."

"What an awful experience on the ship going over," Aziraphale said. The angel knew the moonlight had made his skin and hair silvery and he knew how well it complimented his bright grey eyes. Aziraphale was no fool.

_Heavens, please take me now: All that I wanted is mine now._

Aziraphale coughed. The song was over.

Crowley flicked it off manually, glancing at him. "It's a good thing we have planes now," he said nonchalantly. "You remember Orville and Wilbur."

Aziraphale remembered how they had flown without their wings over the beach, and how close the early model plane had forced them to be.

The demon cleared his throat. "Remember back when, like . . . those litters? The really lush private ones in Rome?"

"Of course. Remember that time we got lost in—?"

"Yes."

Aziraphale realized neither of them was looking at the road. He knew they shouldn't be doing this. They were older now . . .

It was then that the Bentley crashed through the construction barriers on Carlisle Street.

"Shit!"

" _Crowley_!"

"Oh, simmer down," he said unpleasantly. "It's not the end of the world, angel." Crowley turned the old car neatly around, flicking his wrist and restoring every wooden plank and neon cone in the blink of an eye.

"Crowley, I am honestly sick to death of your careless driving!"

For once Crowley genuinely responded to that, puffing out an indignant laugh. "Death, eh? I can arrange that. Really, I haven't killed you in awhile. It'd be cake," he mocked.

Aziraphale was slowly flooding with a deep—dislike for Crowley.

"You can't do anything without going that extra mile to make sure you're being a real, true—"

"What?" Crowley laughed. "Do you even _know_ what you are trying to accuse me of?"

"A _demon_ about it," Aziraphale said loudly over him.

Crowley closed his mouth and considered what Aziraphale had just said. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Aziraphale said lowly.

Crowley leaned close and grabbed the angel by the shoulder and let loose so much laughter so abruptly Aziraphale jumped. "Let me get this straight. You're accusing me of being what I am? _Very_ fucking clever, angel. Very fucking ingeniously cle—"

"You can't wear a color other than _black_ for Some—for _God's sake_ , Crawley—you godforsaken _demon_!"

Crowley snarled at the Name. "Hey," he said quietly, "at least I have the title to go with my corruption."

Aziraphale was breathing so erratically it was really more like panting. He had never been more angry about nothing at all in his life.

"I hate you so much," he told Crowley.

"I know you do. I really do. And let me tell you, angel, there are times I want nothing more than to discorporate you for plaguing me with you, you and, and your fucking halo and your holier than thou tone and voice and just, everything. I hate everything about you."

"Would you just shut up, stop your ridiculous car, and let me out?" Aziraphale was nearly screaming.

"Oh, Hell, I can't stand this anymore." Crowley snatched at the angel's arm which pulled Aziraphale closer and they realized how difficult it was for either of them to catch their breath. Aziraphale was sure the demon was livid enough to really try to hurt him, but he found his own fury draining, being so quickly near to Crowley.

Crowley blinked. "Is here okay?" he asked in a dazed but doggedly angry voice, and Aziraphale felt the Bentley grind to a halt down the block from his bookshop.

"Oh. Yes." Aziraphale searched his face. "My dear—"

Crowley's body shed its tension. He let out the breath he'd been holding and sat back in the driver's seat. "Just go," he said tiredly, folding in on himself.

Aziraphale went. He stood outside the Bentley in the brown light of the city, hesitating.

Crowley lowered the window. _What?_ his face read. The dim light did hauntingly lovely things to his cheekbones. Aziraphale hoped that was a question in his hidden eyes. He moved forward and it wasn’t inexorable or dreamlike—it felt forced and awkward and intensely _real_ and _now_ , but Aziraphale had decided, and when Aziraphale was resolved there wasn’t much anybody could do about it.

Crowley flinched at Aziraphale’s proximity but then became entranced—caught, a snake charmed—and unmoving. His eyes were weirdly large lamps behind their dark shade.

“What?” he demanded irritably, his voice an entity unconnected to the slightly shivery, frozen demon staring intently at him.

Leaning through the window, Aziraphale made it so their mouths were together, thinking he needed to do this more thoroughly or it maybe wouldn’t count. It was so easy to pretend to forget things.

The angle must have strained Aziraphale’s neck, but if there was any discomfort it wasn’t registering. He felt increasingly dizzy and obsessive over how lips fit together, Crowley exhaling, Crowley groaning only barely.

“Move,” Crowley mumbled. He pulled away. “Move. Back. Go.”

"Oh, God. God, I'm sorry, Crowley, I—"

"Shut up."

Crowley shooed him and started to open the door. Aziraphale moved to let him out. When they stood on the same level Aziraphale was suddenly, wonderfully aware of Crowley all over again—height, clothing, lithe body; everything just as he remembered it. A ridiculous feeling, but the angel relished it. Crowley, who had Aziraphale against the side of the car, gently-roughly, and was soon kissing him in the same way. _Lovely,_ Aziraphale thought as he melted into all the senses and half-notions overwhelming him. Although he did spare a moment’s concern for the Bentley; namely, why Crowley wasn’t concerned about it.

“Azir—mmm,” Crowley murmured around their mouths, “Uh yess . . .”

It was ridiculous—ridiculous!—the way the angel was being paralyzed by remembering Crowley, being surrounded by his body-heat.

Aziraphale became aware of voices and footsteps that halted abruptly. The young couple just stared from the sidewalk. The woman let loose a small laugh and Crowley laughed outright because he sensed how they had enjoyed their venture into voyeurism and began to make a gesture that would further their enjoyment of one another but Aziraphale smacked his hand. Crowley looked at him and Aziraphale saw how his cheekbones were streaked with pink. "Have a heart," he murmured.

The couple continued on their way without incident. ( _We're in Soho, you do realize, angel._ ) They watched them leave, still occupying the same personal bubble. Crowely turned back to him, licked his lips. "Come on." He started walking toward the store he had parked outside of, turned around when Aziraphale didn’t follow. "Are you coming or not?" He was sporting a definite gleam in his eye.

"But, my shop is just—" Aziraphale was pointing down the street.

"I don't particularly give a shit," Crowley informed him, snapping and bringing Aziraphale rushing into his arms. The demon certainly was being liberal with his miracles today. He started kissing Aziraphale's neck and moving him along and distracting with hands sliding around and before Aziraphale knew it he was inside a closed bookstore and being pressed against the latest political bestseller by a very ardent demon.

"Crowley, we are—ah—we are _in_ —oh, nnnnn—it's closed, for someone's sake, Crowley!"

"Don't care,"—the demon kissed him—"don't care"—kiss—"don't ca-are, shut u-up . . ." he sang, the sound traveling up Aziraphale's spine whenever their lips were connected. "Anyway, books make you hot, don't even lie."

"They most cer—" But Crowley was well-practiced in the art of cutting Aziraphale off. Aziraphale moaned into the kiss, his whole body washed over with the immediacy and the actuality of it in the most delicious waves.

"Well," Crowley said quietly, his eyes large and marveling at him. Where had those confounded glasses gone?

Aziraphale bit his lip, tried to stop what was pushing its way out of himself. “Maybe we should . . . talk about this.” Why was he even saying this? He had _initiated_ it . . .

But Crowley wasn't fazed, seemed to be expecting it. “You have something to say?” he said in that same subdued tone.

Aziraphale didn’t.

Crowley looked at him—how could just a look do so much? "'Cause all I have to say is, _Heavens_ ," he tempted with his most seductive sarcasm, "please take me _now_."

 _What more could I want than this?_ Aziraphale thought, feeling dizzy, and therefore making it easy for Crowley to grab his hands and lean back with all his weight until it toppled them over onto the floor. Light from a passing car surged through the large windows of the modern, coffee-selling bookstore, very unlike the cooped up world of first edition treasures Aziraphale had created. The unfamiliar setting was exciting. Crowley was wrong, however—all these shiny new junk food books did nothing for Aziraphale on their own.

Aziraphale looked down at the demon beneath him, watching him breathe. His swirly, styled hair had fallen back away from his face and it was easy for Aziraphale to place Crowely in many different moments in history, especially in their own history. Times before time when Crowley had long hair, when he had a sleeker version in Egypt, when it got short and scraggly, when it was inexplicably curly, the time when they had done so many unholy things in a public bathhouse of all places and Crowley's hair was this lovely in-between length that let it fall over his eyes like grass, and he had been all wet and the steam so enclosing and conducive . . .

Aziraphale fiercely wanted to kiss Crowley, loved giving in to this—it felt so natural he couldn't completely believe it counted as sin. He kissed the demon lightly, planting music on his mouth and letting exhales fill in the gaps in the melody he was making. Aziraphale continued his tantalizing approach and soon enough Crowley was making his counterpoint fit, adding nearly accidental teeth and brief flashes of tongue. Aziraphale threaded a hand through Crowley's hair and it was fine and perfect despite how moussed it had appeared. The angel loved Crowley's hair, melted in his eyes, relished everything physical about him—there was no denying Crowley was in prime condition to inspire lust in anybody without so much as thinking about it. Of course Crowley knew this and took great pleasure in it, and Aziraphale had always known Crowley was immensely attractive. He'd been so grateful when Crowley had turned out rather better a person than his job description implied, so grateful when Crowley himself could justify Aziraphale's base desires for his human form. The worst part was Aziraphale didn’t feel horribly guilty about it.

Crowley added another variation to their ongoing fugue with his hand unbuttoning the top buttons on Aziraphale's shirt to lightly trace the skin he uncovered in vague patterns. Aziraphale pulled back in order to breathe and found Crowley watching him unblinkingly, undoing buttons simply by touching them, his mouth open and breathing and wet. Aziraphale felt sudden weakness rush through his body and must have given it away somehow because before he had a chance to retaliate he found himself looking at the friendly signs hanging from the ceiling and the shiny books with their laminated gold-lettered authors, reminded once again of their location and of how hard the floor really was.

"You know," Crowley said, everything still but his speaking lips and his animalistic eyes, and the hair falling in his eyes like grass . . . " _Forever, it composed of nows, 'tis not of different time, except for infiniteness and latitude of home._ "

"Bravo." Aziraphale thought he managed to inject the proper dosage of sarcasm in that, despite how swiftly he was drowning with lust. He had once thought lust was close to the divine, but if he was honest with himself he knew it was much better.

He reached up and began pulling Crowley's layers away. Upper class black suit jacket, wide black tie, black silk shirt, keeping his tanned body secret. The demon was kissing at his neck.

"Who has the time for laying about in the sun—ah—"

"In the winter. Yeah. I do. Had it installed, mmf. Cold in stupid England . . . here, just hold on a moment."

"No, I'll move, or—if you'll just sit up, my dear."

They tried and failed to pull Crowley's jacket off. Crowley let out a quick exasperated breath, his eyes were wild.

"It doesn't matter." Aziraphale tugged him down and licked at his shivering lips. "Please," he said damply, hands tangled in Crowley’s shirt.

"Doesn't matter." Crowley gestured some of his uncooperative clothes away, leaned into Aziraphale again, completely against him, moving sinuously with the kisses, every inch of contact more addicting than Aziraphale remembered. The fine black shirt remained and Aziraphale worked on the buttons with some difficulty considering how close Crowley wanted to be. He finally gave up and just tangled fingers in Crowley's hair while kisses deepened into battles of tongues and teeth and he could have sworn he felt Crowley moan into it. Crowley shifted to lick up Aziraphale's neck and eliminate some of the angel's embarrassing clothing and oh my goodness, Aziraphale had thought _he_ was hard. It was truly a wonder they hadn't progressed much farther than this yet. In the past they had always been rather speedy and desperate. This was sweetly, achingly different. The demon surprised a yelp out of him when he bit on the shell of Aziraphale's ear. It melted into a moan and a _Crowley_ and Crowley answered it, muttered his name and kissed him, seeming blind and acting instinctively.

The heat of Crowley's chest where Aziraphale had managed to bare it was driving him slightly insane. He pushed Crowley over and straddled him, panting, mastering the rest of the buttons and pulling the thing off of him, tossing Crowley about in strange awkward ways to accomplish this. The demon's head hit the wooden floor but Aziraphale countered any impending protest with his mouth all over Crowley's lovely defined chest. Worshipping a nipple in a rather cruelly teasing manner and hardening impossibly at every shuddering noise he forced out of Crowley.

"Ahhh, angel, that's, oh, so good, oh, but, oh, ngk just . . ."

"Yes?" Aziraphale breathed. Crowley groaned.

"Oh, never mind, just dothat _unnnn_ . . ."

 

Crowely kept shuddering, twitched his hips impatiently. Anything bloody, blessed Aziraphale did with his wicked tongue transferred somehow to other parts of his anatomy. Watching him was unbearable. Crowley had to capture him and subdue him and fuck his brains out. Soon. Maybe. Right now it was so good what Aziraphale was doing to him though and the temptation to fall into his clutches was vying with Crowley's need to ravish him.

Aziraphale caught his eye and Crowley blinked at him, sensing his escalating lust. When the angel indulged in any sin it was always to an excessive degree. Crowley pulled him up to kiss him lightly in the slowest most sensual manner possible and efficiently reversed their positions again.

In the course of their rolling around they had ended up under a table, narrowing the world down even more. Aziraphale's breath hitched, he was tracing Crowley's face and tugging at his hair and squirming deliciously. He licked his lips. Crowley flooded with heat. The angel was so saturated in nighttime blue-grey it made him look painted out of silver, and his eyes . . . Aziraphale licked his lips again unconsciously, glistening, inviting . . .

" _Oh_ , stop doing that . . ." Crowley said lowly, leaning down to kiss him.

"I want you so much," he heard, hot against his mouth. "I do, I really—"

"Mm. Shut up pleassse."

Somehow, Crowley needed to convey everything in just a few clumsy human actions. It was unfair, but most things were.

 

Aziraphale felt deliriously weak. He was sure he would come in the next five minutes no matter what happened. Crowley was making hasty work of the rest of their hindering clothing, quite impressive considering he was finally laying off the miracles. He didn't think Crowley even remembered what they were right now; Aziraphale was thinking in terms of _you and I_ and not so much _angel, demon, friend, Crowley_ or anything other than one shining being and the other one that goes with it. And mouths, of course. Crowley's mouth searing his exposed skin, randomly, and where he gripped Aziraphale's arm here or cradled his head to deepen their kiss there it felt so very important. Aziraphale could sense him in this. The most beautiful unguarded sounds were escaping Crowley's lips. He could feel him sucking in breath and hear him speak the most exquisite longing in his fingertips and feel his mouth fit with relief against his again. Somebody moaned and somebody gripped and somebody moaned back.

"I just can't help it," Aziraphale pleaded of somebody.

"Me either. Oh, _please_."

Crowley's expression fled from itself into lust or anger or humor but he couldn't keep it up and when there was finally, finally some friction between them it just flickered between lust and the fullest eyes Aziraphale had ever seen. He couldn’t seem to take the taunting pleasure of feeling his hardness and Aziraphale's and skin and sweat . . . he turned his expression on the angel, so lost. How was it possible for him to look this innocent?

" _Yes_." Aziraphale may have let his impatience show in the way he all but growled it, but no matter—that seemed to have effectively unlocked Crowley because now he felt fingers inside him, slowly and perfectly, using miracles for ease again. "Just, will you just . . ."

"Mm."

Crowley slid abruptly in with more miraculous ease. Aziraphale couldn't complain. Aziraphale couldn't see anything. Blackness just exploded because Crowley had thrust deeply enough and Aziraphale couldn't help gasping and clutching at the pillo—the hardwood floor. Oh, this wouldn't do—

Crowley captured his wrists and slammed them down and just stared at him as he thrust more steadily. Aziraphale whimpered. Crowley studied his face like he was memorizing. Aziraphale's breathing was harsh and punctuated with chokes and ecstatic half-whispers. He begged with his body, wriggling his hands free and clawing at Crowley as the feeling became uncontainable.

Crowley's expression collapsed, he pressed his mouth against Aziraphale's forehead. "Oh, Aziraphale. _Oh_ , thissssiss. Oh, I. Oh, I. I . . . nnnn _an_ gel."

"Shhh, more, just, more, _yes_ , more more _ah_ —ah." He shut himself up. Speaking was too much for his electrified body, and he just breathed throatily for communication and moved in counterpoint to Crowley and dug nails into his back, begging in his silent ways.

 

Crowley kept smoothing Aziraphale's face and kissing his lips and neck and hair, somehow managing to intensify his rhythm at the same time. He tensed and held himself tightly against the angel, tried to look him in the eye but Aziraphale's were squeezed shut and his mouth open and lovely and gasping.

"Aziraphale," he said.

"Oh, _what_?" The angel's eyes slid open, his whole being read abandonment and pleasure.

" _Aziraphale_." Crowley turned his name into a kiss.

"More," Aziraphale breathed weakly, moving against him.

" _Ah_ , Aziraphale." He went back to thrusting relentlessly and watched Aziraphale toss his head around on the floor and so good, so good, so good, Aziraphale—

Someone cried out.

 

*

 

It wasn't that Crowley particularly enjoyed taking the Underground, it was just that he was certain he'd never run into the angel down there. Presumably he was waiting for a train to screech by, leaning importantly against the grungy tiled walls and checking his expensive watch every so often. Crowley always took the time to make sure he looked important no matter the locale. And it was wonderfully warm here.

There was only so much entertainment a demon could come up with on his own over the aeons (there was nothing on TV in the middle of the day), and so people-watching had become a favorite pastime. Crowley didn't consider himself a thinker—he'd known many great thinkers, as history dubbed them—but he did tend to latch onto a specific theme in his thoughts for periods of time. Life had gone on for so _long_ for him, and unless his calculations were horribly off, it was scheduled to end anytime now. On this earth, anyway. He checked his watch and didn't feel as important as he tried to be.

It had been weeks since their . . . _recapitulation_ was a good word.

He caught a whiff of a perfume that placed him in the Renaissance. The middle aged woman who clunked past in high heels looked like an alien with her skin stretched out unnaturally like that. People resorting to plastic surgery were pathetic. Except that Crowley knew he would do anything to keep his life going—he had conveniently forgotten it wasn't going to be renewable forever. His immortal life had only become more and more precious despite any resulting insanities. He thought he would work for it if he had to.

The demon sighed. It was hot down here and he was sick of it.

 

"I don’t know," Aziraphale was saying.

"Why don't you believe me? We might as well just let him in."

"All right, supposing we do. What exactly am I supposed to fill my reports with then?"

"Aziraphale, I'm willing to cave on this one—why won't you just take a good deal when you see one? I'm as bored of communism as you are, and I'm sick of having to think in Russian half the time. We can go assassinate somebody instead, if you like. That'll eat up a page or two. Is that what you want?" It really was a good thing the cab driver wouldn't remember this conversation.

The angel pursed his lips, worked out a believable response. "I'm just worried Gorbachev can't execute it, you see—"

"No," Crowley countered. "No, you just know how much Above likes a good war. Well pardon me, angel, but I don't fancy an ICBM on my doorstep. I have the plants to think of, after all."

"Well, I—"

"You don't seriously agree with them do you? Oh, come _on_."

Aziraphale just looked at him.

"Come on, Aziraphale." He made sure to reel in his instinct for sarcasm.

The cab drove them past the peppy-looking bookstore down the street from Aziraphale's rather dustier one. Crowley swallowed. He reached out and touched Aziraphale's hand on the seat. It was bizarre being in a vehicle other than the Bentley.

"Care to come in for a drink?" Aziraphale asked carefully.

"No." Crowley stared at him, thinking so hard it was hurting his brain. Then he leaned over and fit his mouth to Aziraphale's perfectly. "I don't want to come in to drink."

 

 

*


End file.
